Erica said, “We’d have to run a test, but I’d say that is accurate.”

  Ethan gave her a harsh stare, but he, too, seemed to concur with this analysis. He said nothing to contradict this statement. “So if my prints are set in fish oil, it’s safe to say that these prints were imprinted prior to the death of the victim.”

  Erica nodded. I looked at Ethan. After a long pause, he nodded.

  I continued, “Look at the amount of blood on the knife. Not much at all. Barely any actually.”

  Erica and Ethan’s faces were just inches from the document. Nearly touching. They both surveyed the knife for a long minute. Erica said, “You’re right.”

  Of course I was right.

  I added, “The victim died from a laceration of the neck, more accurately the carotid artery, which we all know is the biggest artery in the body. I mean, look at the crime scene photos; there’s blood splatter six feet from the body. How, then is it possible, that there is almost no blood on the knife. No, if this knife was the murder weapon, there would be so much blood that those perfect fingerprints of mine would be long gone.”

  Erica was smiling.

  Ethan was stewing.

  In case I hadn’t already convinced the pair, I said, “Also, if you look at the size and shape of the laceration on the victim’s neck, it isn’t consistent with the knife found under my sister’s mattress. The knife that killed the victim was serrated.” Fillet knifes aren’t serrated.

  Erica shuffled through the photos until she found the close up of the laceration. She looked up, “You’re right. There’s too much blood coagulated near the wound. If this was the knife used, it would be much cleaner.”

  Thatta girl.

  Ethan took the photo from her and returned it with the others. He said, “Well, that’s enough for today.”

  He left the room for a brief moment, had a quick conversation with a man in a suit, then returned. He had a piece of paper in his hand. He walked behind me and said, “Thomas Prescott, you are under arrest for the murder of Riley Peterson.”

  Erica’s eyes bulged but she said nothing. Evidently there had been enough evidence to convince a judge to sign an arrest warrant.

  I couldn’t really blame them. But I did.

  I turned towards him and said, “If you think I’m going to jail, you’re fucking crazy.”

  He laughed.

  “I want my phone call.”

  “Sure thing.”

  He gave a quick chuckle, and he and Erica walked from the room. A moment later a uniformed officer pushed through the door with a phone. He asked me the number and I told him. He dialed, then handed me the phone. The cuffs made it difficult to talk and I was forced to hold the phone up to my ear using both hands. I had a minute-long conversation, then handed the phone back to the officer. He left as quickly as he came.

  Ten minutes later, Erica and Ethan strolled back in. Ethan had a shit eating grin on his face and asked, “So who’d you call?”

  “My lawyer.”

  He got a kick out of that. “Oh, I can’t wait to see this guy.” He picked up his blue Powerade and shot a stream into his mouth. He kicked his legs up on the table and said, “I made a special request that you be in the same cell as Joey Valeno. You remember him?”

  Joey Valeno was a guy I busted my first year. I may or may not have accidentally shot the tip of his dick off.

  Ethan added, “I told him you were on your way. He said he would start stretching.”

  If this was true, I could kiss my ass good bye. Literally.

  Ten minutes later, my lawyer showed up. He walked through the door and laid his briefcase on the table. I watched as Ethan’s jaw slowly dropped and the gum he’d been chewing spewed onto his lap.

  Adam Gray looked at me and said, “Don’t say another word.”

  Chapter 38

  Ethan and Erica left the room and Adam and I conferred. After twenty minutes, Adam waved the detectives back in.

  They walked through the door and sat. The cocky Ethan of earlier was nowhere to be seen. It was hard to believe that only weeks earlier Ethan had led a handcuffed Adam Gray down the courthouse steps, and now, here he was, an innocent man, representing quite possibly Ethan’s least favorite person on the planet.

  Ha.

  Adam was dressed immaculately in a three-piece suit. Navy blue and probably what most people pay for a secondhand KIA. He lifted his right foot up onto the chair next to me and feigned tying his shoe. His shoe was tied, and I guessed it was more posturing than anything else. He stayed in that position, half leaning, right foot up on the chair, and stared at the two detectives. Finally, he said, “After conferring with my client, it would appear there are a couple of small kinks in your investigation.”

  Both Erica and Ethan sat upright.

  Adam took his foot off the chair and began pacing the small room. He said to no one in particular, “It would appear to me your case is based solely on the murder weapon. Is it safe to assume that if the murder weapon was not discovered in my client’s sister’s room, under the sister’s bed, then my client wouldn’t be here right now.”

  Ethan said, “We can also place your client at the scene.”

  “My client doesn’t deny that he was with the victim.”

  “Actually, he did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ethan’s back straightened just slightly and he said, “When we first questioned him about his whereabouts last night. He lied. He said he didn’t leave the house, when in actuality he was with the victim.”

  Adam looked at me and said, “My client failed to inform me of this.”

  Whoops.

  He turned his gaze to Erica, then back to Ethan. He then said, “Did it ever occur to you my client didn’t want to discuss his New Year’s Eve blowjob in front of your partner here?”

  Ethan looked at Erica than back to Adam. He didn’t have an answer. Erica gave a hesitant look in my direction, then broke away.

  Gray added, “And is it not true that when you did reveal the identity of the victim, my client volunteered freely that he was indeed with the victim the night in question?”

  Ethan said nothing. Erica chimed in, “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Detective Frost.”

  She gave a thin nod.

  “But this isn’t what concerns me. What concerns me is the murder weapon. The knife found under the sister’s bed.”

  Ethan said, “As it should.”

  “You found the murder weapon in the sister’s room, under the sister’s bed. Is this correct?”

  “Where the weapon was found is moot. Your client consented to the search of the entire property.”

  Adam said perfunctorily, “See, that’s the problem.”

  Ethan sat up. Erica leaned forward.

  I crossed my arms and smiled.

  Adam trained his eyes on Ethan and said, “By property you are referring to the residence of 14 Magnolia Lane, Seattle, Washington, 98199.”

  “That sounds right.”

  “That residence belongs to my client’s sister, a one Lacy Prescott.”

  Ethan went limp.

  My father had named me sole executor of his will. After all the red tape was cleared, debts paid, taxes remunerated, and stock options settled, what was left over was a healthy inheritance, not to mention two properties. My parents also owned a home in San Diego. My father was all but retired, having to sit in on a board of directors meeting every couple months, and my parents spent the majority of the winter in San Diego. The inheritance went into a joint bank account accessible to both Lacy and me. The deed to the San Diego property was under my name. The deed to the Magnolia house was under Lacy Ann Prescott.

  Adam said, “Only the owner of a property can consent to a search of said property. This would make the knife inadmissible in court.”

  Ethan blew out a long exhale, the weight of his blunder almost visible on his slouched shoulders. “The property deed will have to be verified.”

  I said, “It will be on file at the King County Recorder’s office.”

  Ethan was down but not out. He said with a smirk, “Unfortunately, it’s a holiday weekend and the recorder’s office is closed until Monday.” He turned to Adam and said, “Looks like your client will be spending a couple days in the county jail after all.”

  I looked at Adam and shook my head. “Have him call the judge”

  I knew enough about the law to know that if the judge who signed the arrest warrant saw fit, he could dismiss the order.

  Adam said, “I think that’s a terrific idea.” He turned to Ethan. “Who signed the arrest warrant?”

  “Judge Harden.”

  “Call him.”

  “I would, but we barely caught him at his home. He and his wife are headed to the San Juans for the holiday weekend.” He tried to give the impression there wasn’t anything he could do.

  I said, “Call his cell.”

  Ethan scoffed and said, “Harden doesn’t believe in cell phones. He says they make people easy to find.”

  Adam laughed. I had a feeling he’d heard these exact words from the mouth of the lion himself. He looked at me and said, “Don’t worry, Harriet should have hers with her.”

  “Harriet?”

  “Yes, Harriet. His wife.”

  Adam whipped out his cell phone and dialed.

  Ethan stared on with horror.

  After a long couple seconds, Adam said, “Harriet, how are you? . . . Happy New Year to you too . . . So, I hear you’re headed to the San Juans . . . Lovely this time of year. . . Listen, can I have a quick word with Bob? . . . I know, but it’s important . . . will do.”

  He looked at me and winked.

  Ethan was slowly turning a shade of green.

  Adam started back up. “Slow down, Bob . . . I’m doing you a favor here

  . . . Will you listen to me? . . . About the arrest warrant you signed . . . Yeah, well, it wasn’t his property . . . No I’m not shitting you . . . You have to dismiss the charges . . . Yeah, right here . . . You want to talk to him?”

  Adam handed the phone to Ethan, who took it as though it were made of enriched uranium. Meanwhile, Erica was trying to hide a widening grin.

  After taking what must have been a two-minute tongue-lashing, Ethan handed the phone back to Adam.

  For a moment, I thought he was going to cry.

  My lawyer listened for a another minute then said, “Yeah, yeah, no problem . . . Yes, that could have been embarrassing . . . Next Thursday . . . I’ll make the tee time.”

  Ten minutes later, I walked out of the Seattle Police Department a free man.

  Chapter 39

  I spent the better part of the holiday weekend feeling sorry for myself. Now, I’m not saying if you’re a woman and you let me into your life you are destined to meet an untimely death, but my record was pretty grisly. Just over a year before, the last case I worked, my ex-fiancée was brutally murdered. And both my sister and Alex came very close to being killed.

  That’s why I’d run from that life. That’s why I was back in Seattle. To escape it all. Mind my own business and maybe, just maybe, stop getting people killed. But there are some things you can’t run from. Just ask Riley Peterson.

  But now I was involved. I no longer had control over my actions. I was like that big boulder in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Riley’s death had set me in motion and I wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, until I crushed whoever had killed her.

  I was about to snap. I needed to go running. I laced up the old Asics and started into the drizzle.

  After about a half mile, the crime scene photos of Riley flashed through my mind. I tried to the blink the images away, but they didn’t waver. I knew from past experience these images would play over and over until I found out who killed her, who robbed her of her life.

  If Riley had just been murdered, I might’ve been able to write this off as a terrible coincidence. Just another victim of the ubiquitous black cloud that had shrouded my life for the past decade. But, I’d been framed for her murder. Someone either wanted me locked up or they wanted to send a clear message that I was snooping around in something I shouldn’t be. Was this the same person that framed Adam Gray for his wife’s murder? I didn’t see how it could be anyone else. Ellen and Riley’s murders had to be connected.

  Speaking of Ellen, the more I thought about her, the more I was convinced whoever killed her wanted her body to be discovered. I thought about where Gray’s yacht had been driven that night and her body dumped. This particular channel of the Sound was probably the most highly trafficked waterway in all of the Pacific Northwest. You had multiple ferries crisscrossing through the water every thirty minutes. You had boats coming in and out of Fishermen’s Terminal at all hours. Not to mention a Coast Guard station, one of the five largest shipping piers on the West Coast, and four tourist overlooks. There were more eyes scanning this particular area than possibly any other waterway in the United States. I mean, the chances of Ellen’s body not being found were astronomical.

  But why? Why would someone want her body found?

  Obviously, they wanted to frame Adam for her murder. But this seemed almost after the fact.

  Maybe I was looking at this all wrong. Maybe I needed to start looking at this from a new perspective. Not Ellen. But Adam. Maybe one of Adam’s clients. I’m sure he represented his fair share of shady individuals. But, from what I’d read, he’d gotten most of them off scot-free, so they should be sending him fruit baskets, not framing him for his wife’s murder.

  Then you had Riley. What was her role? She was peripherally connected to Ellen though the North Cascades. Had Riley seen or heard something and kept quiet? She didn’t seem the type. Maybe she knew something without knowing it. And maybe whoever killed her thought I would be the one to drag it out of her. Or maybe they killed her just to piss me off.

  Which brought us back to me.

  Once again, I’d found myself tangled up in a sticky web of death. Was I an innocent fly that had been caught unexpectedly by the trap? Not really. But Riley had been. Ellen, possibly, as well. Even Adam hadn’t intentionally been prodding and poking at the web as I had. I’d been the one to awaken the spider. I’d been the one flying around, watching as the spider silently crept up to his captive and sank in his teeth.

  But who was the spider?

  I didn’t have the faintest idea.

  My gut had always told me it had something to do with the North Cascades. This was the only point where Riley, Ellen, and I connected. I had a feeling Ellen Gray’s relationship with the North Cascades went a bit deeper than hiking and leisure.

  I had a couple more questions I wanted to throw at Kim, Ellen’s press secretary. But my mind was sapped. I needed to set it all aside for awhile.

  I needed to see Harold.

  . . .

  As per regulations, I stopped at the front desk to sign in before I made my way to Harold’s room.

  The woman at the desk was new—maybe a couple hours younger than the dug-up corpse I was used to seeing—and she picked up the clipboard after I signed it. I’m guessing the other lady had made the move from employee to resident. Anyhow, the lady raised her penciled-in eyebrows and said, “Who’s CH?”

  “Cretaceous Harold.”

  Her eyebrows nearly touched, or overlapped, and I said, “That’s what he told me to call him.”

  She checked a ledger and her face fell. Uh-oh.

  She said, “I have some bad news.”

  I took a deep breath. I wasn’t stable enough to handle the old coot kicking the bucket. I mean, I know sometimes old people die. But Harold was really, really, really old. He was nearly mummified. It had never registered that he was in fact pushing his luck.

  I asked, “Dead?”

  She shook her head, “Not yet.”

  Yet?

  She added, “He’s in the hospital wing. Took a pretty bad fall a couple days ago. Broke both his wrists.”

  I tried to hold in a laugh but was unsuccessful. The image of Harold with a cast on each wrist was too much. But the good news was I wouldn’t have to hear any more polka any time soon.

  I asked, “Can I see him?”

  She said I could and gave me directions.

  I made my way to the hospital wing, which should have been called the morgue wing. In the hallway, I passed two black bags, or as we referred to them in my past life, two deadies.

  I found his room and peeked through the small window in the closed door. I could see Harold sitting upright in the bed, his casted arms crossed over his chest. He had an IV in one arm and an oxygen mask over his mouth. A nurse was standing in front of a large machine with a clipboard. My stomach tightened. I think there was more to the story than just two broken wrists.

  I pushed through the door.

  The nurse, an attractive black woman, glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back and said, “How is he?”

  She leaned her head to the side and said, “He’s stable.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, they initially brought him here for two broken wrists. Poor guy thought he had his walker in front of him and leaned forward to take a step. Fell face-first. Snapped both wrists.”

  I glanced down at Harold. The oxygen mask over his mouth filled with fog as his chest fell. His glasses were off and sitting on a small tray just to his left.

  I asked, “What’s with all the tubes?”

  She put the clipboard down, uncrossed Harold’s arms, and set them at his sides. She looked up and said, “While they were setting his wrists he had what’s called an emphysema attack. Basically, it’s just a violent coughing attack, but it can easily cause a heart attack or stroke or internal bleeding. Luckily, he was in the hospital wing and we could give him something to quell it right off.”

  I nodded.

  On a small side table were six or seven cards, a couple bouquets of flowers, a coffee mug, two AA batteries, a blue Sharpie, a stapler, and a Snackpack of tapioca pudding.

  The nurse noticed my gaze and said, “They steal things, then send them to each other as get well presents.”

 

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